Read They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel Online
Authors: Daniel Black
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Literary, #United States, #Women's Fiction, #Domestic Life, #Contemporary Fiction, #American, #Literary Fiction, #African American, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Psychological
They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel (27 page)
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“Why didn’t you help her, Willie James?” I cried in confusion.
“’Cause fear had me paralyzed. I tried to move, really I did, but my whole body was stiff like a stone. I couldn’t even scream. Everything wuz happenin’ so fast dat my brain couldn’t process it fast enough. I was cryin’ and shakin’, but I jes’ couldn’t move.” Willie James lamented loudly, “You woulda been proud o’ Sister, T.L. She was fightin’ like a wild woman and she jes’ had a baby. She grabbed the sharp end of the hoe and hu’ and Momma tussled in a frenzy till Momma got it ‘way from hu’ and started beatin’ hu’ wit’ it. Momma kept yellin’ stuff I couldn’t make out ‘cept de line, ‘You ain’t bringin’ dat boy back here! I swear fo’ God you ain’t. I done put dat behind me and I be goddamn if you gon’ make me suffer it again.’ I heard dat loud and clear.
“I knowed Sister was either hurt real bad or dead ‘cause she wunnit movin’ no mo’. Momma fell on de ground next to her and started cryin’ somethin’ awful. It didn’t make no sense to me. She started apologizin’ fu’ bein’ a bad momma and fu’ havin’ to do what she jes’
did, but she couldn’t help it, she said. De baby looked too much like you, and she wunnit gon’ neva deal wit’ dat again. I didn’t know exactly what she meant, but I guessed it had somethin’ to do wit’ you not bein’ hu nachel-born son. I neva knowed she resented you like dat.”
did, but she couldn’t help it, she said. De baby looked too much like you, and she wunnit gon’ neva deal wit’ dat again. I didn’t know exactly what she meant, but I guessed it had somethin’ to do wit’ you not bein’ hu nachel-born son. I neva knowed she resented you like dat.”
I leaned my head back and studied the heavens, unsure if I wanted to hear the rest or run and call the police.
“Anyway, Momma snapped back to hu’ regular mean self and ran in de house. I didn’t know what she was doin’ or how long she was gonna be gone. I tried to move again, I sware I did, but I jes’ couldn’t. I didn’t know nothin’ else to do but cry and hold myself real tight. Momma come back what seem like a second later and wrapped Sister in a big white sheet. She didn’t do nothin’ wit’ de baby. Then, she took de shovel and ran out de barn frantically. Dat’s when my bones thawed and I ran to Sister’s body and unwrapped it real fast. I thought she was dead, but she wunnit. I wuz bawlin’ and holdin’ hu’ tight and tellin’ hu’ how much I loved hu’. De only thing she said wuz,’Tell T.L. I love him.’ Then hu’ head fell back and I knowed she was gone. I put de sheet back ova hu’ face and bleated like a young lamb at slaughter. I was helpless, hopeless, and too confused to know what to do. But I knowed fu’ sho’ I didn’t want Momma to know I had seen hu’. I wuz gon’ do somethin’, I promised myself, but I didn’t know what. No police would believe my story, and I didn’t have nobody else to tell.
“I grabbed de baby and took off runnin’ for de woods. Momma didn’t see me’cause she was too busy diggin’ Sister’s grave. At least I think she didn’t see me. I don’t think I ever ran dat fast in my life. I had de baby in one arm and a little garden shovel in de otha. When I got back in de woods behind de barn, I rocked de little boy and hummed nursery rhymes as I rubbed his dead body. I hugged him and thought about you and wuz mad’cause I didn’t know where to find you and I needed you bad dat day. My tears fell on de crown o’ his head as I trembled and sang all at de same time. Then I remembered
de tractor parked down de lane from de house and told myself I’d betta hurry befo’ somebody see it and know somethin’ ain’t right.
de tractor parked down de lane from de house and told myself I’d betta hurry befo’ somebody see it and know somethin’ ain’t right.
“I laid my son on de ground real gentle-like and dug a little grave where I found a soft spot underneath some old leaves. I couldn’t hardly see fu’ cryin’ and my hands kept droppin’ de shovel’cause I was so nervous. But after a coupla minutes, I had a hole dug and laid de baby in it and covered him up. I put de leaves back over de spot and said a prayer and left.”
“Where exactly did you bury him?” My curiousity got the better of my terror.
Willie James scrutinized my face. “I ain’t gon’ tell dat, T.L. I promised myself I wunnit gon’ neva tell nobody and I’m gon’ keep dat promise.”
As he was obviously resolute in his self-commitment, I pushed no further.
“I wanted somethin’ dat wuz jes’ between me and my son. Since I couldn’t share his life, de least I could do, I said to myself, was to give him a proper burial. I promised him sweet rest by tellin’ him dat nobody would ever disturb him again. I intend to keep dat promise.”
“What about seeing him on the ground that day back in the woods? How did that happen?”
“I don’t know. But I did see him. I was in shock’cause I knowed fu’ sho’ dat I had jes’ buried him myself. I thought maybe a coyote or somethin’ had smelled him and dug him up, but it wouldn’t have left him there. It woulda ate him or drug him away, right?”
Thinking the question rhetorical, I returned only a stare.
“I picked him up and cradled him in my arms again. I felt worse than I ever felt in my life. I had done made a promise to my son, and somethin’ or somebody proved to me dat I didn’t have no control ova his life anyway. I went back to de place where I buried him and it looked untouched. I didn’t see no animal tracks and the leaves didn’t look rustled. I thought I was losing my mind, T.L.”
“You were!” I said.
“Well, to get it back again, I cremated him myself. I wunnit gon’ let nothin’ disturb my son’s peace again, if I could help it.”
I was standing before him, staring into his eyes, searching incessantly for the logic that justified his psychopathic behavior.
“Don’t look down at me, man!” he reproached me. “What else could I do? I had made a promise and I had to keep it. What’s wrong wit’ dat?”
“The whole thing is sick!” I foamed hysterically. “You made a promise to a dead baby whom you and your own sister had conceived! Of course, she was murdered by her mother as her brother watched in frozen horror. Then—”
Willie James rebuked my sarcasm, “Don’t talk to me like I ain’t got no sense, boy. The story is more complicated than I can explain. You make it sound like it ain’t nothin’, but it is!”
“Yes, it is serious, Willie James! But you don’t have the right to cremate a body simply because you want to!”
“I didn’t want to!” he yelled violently, and swung his arms in the dark night. “I had to! This was my son and I had made a promise!”
“How do you make a promise to a dead baby?”
“Easy! I was talkin’ to his spirit. You should understand dat.”
“I do understand that, Willie James, but I don’t understand how you cremate a body on your own recognizance.”
“Your own what?” He appeared insulted.
I circumvented the explanation by rewording, “I don’t understand how you decide to do that and simply do it.”
“You did it all the time, T.L. Like when you left Swamp Creek. You jes’ up and decided to leave and you left. I don’t remember you makin’ no announcement or askin’ anybody else if they agreed or not.”
“That’s different,” I argued weakly.
“How? It looks like de same thang to me. You make a decision you think is right and you stand by it. Others ain’t got to agree.”
He was right. Even as I thought of how peacefully I had left home
after high school, I knew that if someone had protested, their words would have been meaningless vanity.
after high school, I knew that if someone had protested, their words would have been meaningless vanity.
“So I made a decision for my son and I don’t regret it. In fact, I’m glad about it’cause now can’t nobody mess with him.”
“Then what were you smelling at the trash barrel that day?”
“I lied about that, T.L. It was Momma who smelled somethin’ and she asked me what wuz burnin’ and I told her I had throwed a coupla dead rats from de barn onto de fire. She gave me a funny look and walked away. Everything I told you befo’ was jes’ to git you off my back. Now, I ain’t got to lie no more.”
An owl perched itself on a tree limb about thirty feet from where we were standing. It examined us, rotating its head slowly, seemingly assessing whether we were too big to carry away. Then it spread its wings and flew toward us like a warplane.
“Whoa!” we shouted simultaneously. The owl ascended quickly and disappeared.
Willie James said pensively, “Grandma used to say that when you see an owl it’s really a dead person comin’ to talk to you. Maybe dat was Sister or de little baby boy.”
“Maybe,” I repeated doubtfully, “but if it were either of them, I sure wish they had told us something to help make sense of all this.”
“It ain’t gon’ neva make sense. Not completely. We too far gone round here to make complete sense. Everybody a li’l abnormal, includin’ you.”
I chuckled at the naked truth.
“We jes’ gotta do de bes’ we can wit’ what we got left. I know all dis sound real stupid to you, but it ain’t. I been carryin’ dis fu’ years and it finally make sense to me.”
“How?”
“’Cause lonely, desperate people do desperate things. Ain’t nothin’ worse than livin’ a life you know don’t mean nothin’ to nobody. You keep askin’ yo’self what you here fu’, and you don’t neva come up wit’ nothin’. I think that’s why Sister came to my bed dat night.
She wanted to create life, T.L. After you left, hu’ life lost all its meanin’ and she faced de truth dat she might live in Swamp Creek foreva and die wit’out anybody eva knowin’ she had been on de earth. Dat’s a bad feelin’, to come to de earth and leave wit’out anybody eva noticin’. What I’m sayin’ is dat everybody in de world is tryin’ to figure out how to be remembered. Some people write songs so radio stations and musicians can still play them long after dey gone, and some people build buildings and name them after theyselves ‘cause dey know de buildin’ is gon’ last longer than they are, and some people write books so others can read them hundreds of years after dey gone and de author’s pleasure is knowin’ dat they life don’t neva stop influencin’ otha lives. But round here, what wuz Sister gon’ do to make people remember hu’? The only thing she could think of was givin’ life to somebody else. Then, someone would be grateful to hu’ foreva. I guess dat’s why I didn’t stop hu’, too. I didn’t have nothin’ to leave de world. Farmin’ ain’t nothin’ dat nobody care’bout and drivin’ tractors ain’t no special skill. I wanted to touch at least one person’s life, T.L. Dat’s what everybody want, I think.”
She wanted to create life, T.L. After you left, hu’ life lost all its meanin’ and she faced de truth dat she might live in Swamp Creek foreva and die wit’out anybody eva knowin’ she had been on de earth. Dat’s a bad feelin’, to come to de earth and leave wit’out anybody eva noticin’. What I’m sayin’ is dat everybody in de world is tryin’ to figure out how to be remembered. Some people write songs so radio stations and musicians can still play them long after dey gone, and some people build buildings and name them after theyselves ‘cause dey know de buildin’ is gon’ last longer than they are, and some people write books so others can read them hundreds of years after dey gone and de author’s pleasure is knowin’ dat they life don’t neva stop influencin’ otha lives. But round here, what wuz Sister gon’ do to make people remember hu’? The only thing she could think of was givin’ life to somebody else. Then, someone would be grateful to hu’ foreva. I guess dat’s why I didn’t stop hu’, too. I didn’t have nothin’ to leave de world. Farmin’ ain’t nothin’ dat nobody care’bout and drivin’ tractors ain’t no special skill. I wanted to touch at least one person’s life, T.L. Dat’s what everybody want, I think.”
I sighed deeply and fought to receive my brother’s words amicably. In the midst of his insanity, I began to understand my family’s dysfunctional sensibility and why we were all determined, ultimately, to abandon our origin.
“Sister meant a lot to you, and I know dat, but she didn’t mean more than yo’ own life. Nothin’ wuz more important to you than makin’ de world recognize your presence. Dat’s why you left here, although it broke yo’ heart to leave Sister. You wunnit gon’ let nothin’ or nobody keep you from makin’ de world hear what you had to say. And you wuz willin’ to leave motha, fatha, sista, and brotha to leave dat mark on de world. Good!” Willie James smiled at me. “Jes’ understand dat me and Sista wanted to do de same thang. We wanted to be important to somebody and to know dat somebody would actually be moved if we wunnit here. De onlyest way to do dat wuz to create somethin’ de world didn’t already have, and dat’s what we did.”
“Oh, Willie James,” I said exhaustively, and reached for his hand. To my surprise, he didn’t resist.
“I know; I know,” he repeated, rotating his head slowly. “It’s de best we knowed to do.”
“Do you think Momma knew the baby was yours?”
“She mighta knowed.”
“How? You think Sister told her?”
“No. Sista would neva have told her. The night we made life, I thought I heard footsteps in de hallway. I closed my eyes and tried to listen real hard, but I didn’t hear anything more. But I could have sworn I heard footsteps. I told Sista the next day, but she said she didn’t hear anything, so I forgot about it. Then, one day, Daddy told Momma dat a mouse had got in de house. She said, ‘I know. I know everythang dat go on in dis house.’ She threw me a threatening look. I got nervous, but I tried not to show it. She wuz definitely tellin’ me somethin’. You know how Momma do.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Don’t tell nobody what I’m tellin you, T.L. Ain’t no tellin’ what’s li’ble to happen to me. It jes’ don’t make sense fu’ you to come all dis way afta all dese years and leave here not knowin’. Now you know.”
He started walking again, but I grabbed his arm and stopped him. “What about Daddy? Didn’t he ever say anything about all this?”
“Nope. Notta word. At least not to me. Maybe him and Momma talked about it, but I didn’t hear Daddy say nothin’’bout it.”
“Did you ever ask him?”
“Ask him what?”
“Ask him about Sista’s death?”
“Daddy knows something, Willie James.”
“I know he do. He got to. He don’t let nothin’ happen round dis place’less he know’bout it.”
“Big brother, this is madness.”
“You tellin’ me?” Willie James said, squeezing my hand tighter. “I been carryin’ all dis shit round wit’ me fu’ years. It done near ‘bout drove me outta my mind. I’m glad somebody else know’bout it now, though. Hell, I don’t care no more, T.L. Momma nem can do whatever dey want to to me. I’m tired o’ bein’ scared o’ dem and I ain’t gon’ do it no mo’.”
Willie James released my hand and sobbed freely into both of his own; I massaged the nape of his neck and cried along. “We’ll make it, Willie James. Somehow, we’ll make it.”
“Yeah, I hope so.” He lifted his head and wiped away his tears.
He looked different to me in the moonlight. His face had an innocence of which the daylight robbed him. For the first time in my life, I saw the core of Willie James’s heart. It was caring, sensitive, and compassionate. I supposed I hadn’t seen it before because those kinds of hearts in a southern black man either get destroyed or are masked thoroughly. The darkness of the night, ironically, assisted in his heart’s exposure and allowed him to express its contents unashamed. The darkness also reminded us of the temporal nature of comfort zones, for we knew that, as morning approached, the routine of our regular lives awaited our embracing like a newborn child its mother.
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